


Nagging Feeling

by brinnanza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, john watson you are drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And John's sitting there on the sofa, completely out of his mind, in just his pants. Sherlock thinks this shouldn't be a big deal; he's dealt with body parts before. There are several fingers and most of a leg in the refrigerator at this very moment. But these are John's body parts. And his damp cotton pants don't leave a lot to the imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nagging Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> American, Unbeta'd
> 
> Prompt: John goes to the pub one night and gets wasted. When he gets home he's too paralytic to open the door and just collapses against it outside in the rain. Luckily Sherlock is still awake and hears him. I just want fluff of Sherlock putting a giggly drunk John to bed.

It's pushing two and the rain is falling steadily when Sherlock hears it. It's soft, but there's a distinct thump against the door to the building. With a sigh, knowing it is likely to be John returning from his evening with Mike at the pub, Sherlock closes the book he's reading and goes to let John in.

He opens the door and sure enough, John is in a heap outside, his clothes absorbing the water of a nearby puddle. He looks up at Sherlock with unfocused eyes and dons a huge grin. “Hi Sh'lock!” he slurs. He tries to sit up but flops back down again. “It's raining,” he says with a frown.

Sherlock has half a mind to leave him in the rain for getting so blindingly drunk but he doesn't especially want to listen to an ill John complain about his cold. Sherlock crouches and maneuvers John's arm around his shoulder, supporting John's weight. He manages to get the two of them upright and into the building. Sherlock kicks the door closed behind them then surveys the 17 stairs to their flat with an exasperated exhale.

“Not raining here!” says John with a giggle. 

“That's because we're inside now,” Sherlock says patiently. He shifts John so he's not leaning on Sherlock quite so much and starts up the stairs.

“We are!” He giggles again. Sherlock considers leaving him on the stairs.

John will probably tumble down the stairs and break something if Sherlock leaves him here, and as much as he is loath to admit it, he does need his blogger. When they make it to the landing, he leans John against the door so he can turn the knob, catching John just before he falls into their flat. Sherlock deposits John on the sofa (he's not going to bother with the second set of stairs) and rolls his shoulders.

Sherlock is heading for his bedroom when John says, “Sh'lock!” Sherlock turns around, an eyebrow quirked. “Sh'lock!” John repeats with a giggle. It suddenly turns into a frown. “I'm wet.”

Ah. Had their roles been reversed, John would probably have helped Sherlock into some dry clothes. Not that that scenario had any chance of occurring. “Stay there. I'll find something drier,” he instructs, then takes the stairs two at a time to John's bedroom.

When he returns, John has managed to kick off one shoe and one sock (curiously not on the same foot) and get one arm out of his jumper through the neck. He waves his hand around, wiggling his elbow and pushing up at the bottom of the jumper with his free hand. He sees Sherlock and says, “Help!” 

Sherlock sets the pyjamas he's collected on the table then pulls John's jumper up and off of him. He chucks it off to the side where it lands heavily with a squelching sound. John beams and wiggles his feet at Sherlock, who removes the other sock and shoe. He's pretty sure there is no one else on earth he'd do this for, but John puts up with a hell of a lot. Also, Sherlock forgot to pick up milk that evening and social custom (not that he gave a damn about social custom) seemed to dictate he ought to do something to make it up to John.

Sherlock moves John into a more upright position on the sofa. He undoes the buttons of his shirt swiftly, helps John get his arms out then chucks it next to the jumper. Then he stops. Because John's jeans are wet too but Sherlock's not sure how far social custom dictates he go to help.

He is suddenly aware that John is talking, babbling away about something almost certainly unimportant. “And there was this girl and I was gonna buy her a drink and she was really pretty but then her boyfriend showed up and then I didn't.” He frowned, but then immediately broke into a grin. “But that's okay cause now I'm here and so are you.” He pauses. “You have nice hands.” With more coordination than Sherlock thought he possessed at the moment, John grabs a hold of one of Sherlock's hands.

He leans forward and then loses his balances. Sherlock drops his hand quickly to catch him by the shoulders and pushes him back against the sofa.

John makes a small noise of protest but stays there. Then he wiggles around uncomfortably, as if he's just noticed his trousers as soaked as well. “Wet,” he says plainly and his clumsy fingers fumble with the button.

Sherlock bats his hand away with a sigh and undoes the button and zip on John's trousers. John kicks them off and Sherlock throws them with the rest of his sodden clothing. 

And John's sitting there on the sofa, completely out of his mind, in just his pants. Sherlock thinks this shouldn't be a big deal; he's dealt with body parts before. There are several fingers and most of a leg in the refrigerator at this very moment. But these are John's body parts. And his damp cotton pants don't leave a lot to the imagination.

Sherlock stands up abruptly and takes a step away from the sofa. Keeping his distance, he hands the dry pyjamas to John. Who promptly puts a foot in a sleeve. Sherlock sighs again. John is going to owe him one for this. And he's not sure really what John will owe him, but there's something, something for John in thin cotton and giggling and falling over and blathering about girls and hands. Something for this confusing nagging that Sherlock's feeling in the back of his mind, where Sherlock's not accustomed to feelings being.

He takes the shirt from John and helps him put it on properly. He's reaching for the trousers when John grabs his hand again and yanks him forward on top of him. They're a tangle of limbs and Sherlock is doing his level best to extricate himself but John is _strong_ even when he's completely blitzed. He gets his arms around Sherlock's neck and holds. Sherlock hears and feels breathing in his ear, feels a press of skin and realizes with an emotion he can't define (horror doesn't seem quite right and he's surprised but that nagging feeling is getting stronger) that John is nuzzling into Sherlock's neck.

“You're nice,” says John in his ear just a bit too loudly for comfort. Sherlock tries to duck out under his arms but John just shifts his grip. “Nice hands,” John stage-whispers. “Nice... skin.” And Sherlock feels the press of soft lips on his neck and he can't move—he's actually having trouble breathing as well, which is somewhat disconcerting seeing as there's no strenuous physical activity happening.

Something is straining though, and Sherlock can feel it against his hip. That odd nagging feeling is still there and a similar feeling has developed in his chest. Sherlock always thought the expression “butterflies in the stomach” was a silly phrase, but there is definite fluttering happening here.

But John has had entirely too much to drink, he's not aware of his actions, and he probably won't remember this in the morning anyway. This—and Sherlock's not even sure what _this_ is or will be—would be taking advantage of John. He starts to pull back and meets no resistance. John's breathing has slowed and evened out. He's slumped up against the back of the sofa, asleep. 

~*~

A smile quirks at the edge of Sherlock's mouth and the nagging feeling Sherlock's been experiencing since John has returned feels like an explosion or a stroke in the back of his head and finally he realizes what it is. It catches Sherlock by surprise. He wasn't aware he had the capacity to feel that particular emotion and certainly not that strongly. Because the strange feeling is affection or, dare he even think it, love.

He's pretty sure he's in love with John Watson.

He moves John so he's lying properly on the sofa and tosses a blanket over him. He sits down in John's armchair, steeples his fingers under his chin, and ponders. John has given every (sober) indication that he didn't feel that way about Sherlock, which up until this very moment, apparently, was the way Sherlock wanted it. He was married to his work. The puzzle was the important thing, the interesting thing, everything.

And now... what? Logic didn't really apply here and Sherlock was at a loss. He's pretty sure he can ignore these new-found feelings until they disappear, keep it from John, pretend everything is fine and he's just the same coldly logical nutter John's moved in with. He's just not sure he _wants_ to. And that's new.

He watches John snore softly across the sitting room. John wouldn't remember his actions. Sherlock isn't even sure John really intended them. His pulse had been elevated and his eyes dilated and alcohol tends to lower inhibitions but maybe... maybe John just wanted some kind of platonic closeness, the touch of a friend. Maybe Sherlock was panicking over nothing.

But maybe John was just as good of an actor as Sherlock. Maybe it took copious amounts of alcohol to admit how he really felt about Sherlock.

Either way, it's as good a puzzle as the average murder and Sherlock's determined to get to the bottom of it.

~*~

The next morning, John wakes with a groan and flings an arm over his eyes. “Bloody hell.” He struggles to a sitting positing, rolls his shoulders and cradles his head in his hands.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says from across the room in a deliberately normal tone of voice.

John winces. “Aspirin?” he asks, rubbing his temples.

“You're the doctor.” John's not looking at him, but Sherlock keeps his face in a mask of careful indifference. John makes some vague grumbling noises then hauls himself off of the sofa. He rolls his bad shoulder again as he wanders off, presumably looking for the medication.

Sherlock stretches out his long limbs and ponders how much time he should wait before enacting his very clever plan to ascertain John's true desires. He needs data. He's just considering waiting a few hours until John's hangover has abated when John re-enters the living room.

“Look, Sherlock, about last night--” John starts, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “How much do you actually remember?” Judging by the pink tinge to his cheeks and the slight wince, more than Sherlock predicted he would. Leave it to John to preempt Sherlock's clever, clever plan. 

“Um. Most of it. The important bits. Coming on to you. And I'm... sorry. About that.” John flops down into his armchair. “Won't happen again.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, his tone sounding as if it is merely a question of science.

John looks up sharply. “What? Why not? Because... Hell, Sherlock, you're my flatmate and I was pissed and it's inappropriate and you're married to your work...” It's a moment later when John appears to realize what he said and, lacking the ability to shove the words back in his mouth, tries to backpedal. “And I like women and you're not a woman and I don't... I'm not...” He trails off.

“But you did mean it.” It isn't a question. 

To his credit, John doesn't deny it. He does flush a deeper shade of red and stare at his feet. After several long seconds, he says, “It won't happen again. Or I could find somewhere else to stay until I find a new place.”

Sherlock just quirks an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?” 

“Because you don't...” John opens and closes his mouth a few times, searching for words. 

“I don't reciprocate?” Sherlock stands, crosses the room, stands right in front of John. He crosses his arms and looks down at John, who's flushing furiously and appears to have just noticed he's not wearing trousers.

“Married to your work,” John says quietly, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Sherlock's eyes flick down to where John's interest in the situation is becoming obvious.

“While I appreciate your efforts, why don't you leave the deductions to me?” After a brief moment of hesitation, Sherlock leans down and presses his lips softly against John's.

When he pulls back, John's mouth is slightly open, his pupils blown. Elevated heart rate, increased perspiration, Sherlock notes. Conclusion: attraction confirmed.

“Not married to your work?” John asks a little breathlessly.

“I believe I have room for an affair,” says Sherlock, and he leans in to kiss John again.


End file.
